I Love You Because
by Bizzy
Summary: 100 Royai challenge prompts, I'm giving this a go. [Renamed from 100 Royai Prompts!]
1. Military Personnel

Royai 100 Prompts!

Hello all, I'm doing a 100 Royai Prompt challenge thing. I am not doing the prompts in order, because I fail like that.

Dont' own FMA, but it'd be cool if I did!

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1. Military Personnel

She had a strange tendency to return to militaristic behavior, even when on a rare day off. She walked with her shoulders back, head upright, and it made him snicker every time. She stood out like a sore thumb, every ounce of her behavior screaming that she was one of the many military personnel in Central.It was one particular Sunday afternoon that he stopped to talk to her. He had spotted her about two blocks away, though the dead giveaway had been the cornflower-yellow hair. She was stooped over a produce cart, hand-selecting apples.

"Hello, Riza." He grinned, as she turned, somewhat startled. After waiting a beat, she smiled.

"Hello, sir."

He bent over the cart as well, following her gaze. "Choosing apples?"

"Yes, sir."

Memories came to mind, filtering into his consciousness. The thought of her reminding him more than once to eat _properly_, that he was to eat some fruit every day, and that one day not even a week ago, she had insisted upon giving him the apple she had brought for her lunch.

"You seem to have a talent for that," he said quietly, picking up what was obviously a terribly beaten little piece of fruit. "Care to help me select?"


	2. Gunshot

Author's Note: Don't own FMA. I like the way this one came out

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2. Gunshot 

She was not afraid of the sound of bullets hissing through the air, nor was she afraid of a gunshot—even if it sounded near her. It would be impractical; she did work with firearms. She was not afraid of the cold, metallic click of a gun. None of that frightened her, not a bit. She was so certain of her lack of fear in guns, that when she was cornered in training, though she knew she had done a pathetic job, she was not afraid. It had been her Colonel who chased her into the corner, and even with the barrel of a gun aimed for her temple, she was not afraid.

But with the click of the safety, the nerves snapped her to attention. She immediately raised a hand in self defense, starting to shove him away. In the back of her mind, she knew his talent with a gun was less than impeccable, but the chance simply wasn't worth taking. Instead, her shove did a bit too little, and he fired.

Amber eyes were wide in shock when the bullet just barely grazed past her ear. She could feel the hair on her head singed. Hawkeye gaped at him. After a moment, he leaned in closer to her, the hand holding the gun resting on her shoulder. "I've got you right where I want you," he murmured, breath stinging against her ear. Then, he turned, and pressed a kiss on her cheek, one hand straying to her waist.

The chaste kiss hadn't unnerved her, but his hand wandering the side of her body did, and she immediately reached for her gun.

But in a move of triumph, he stepped back, waving the gun that had previously been in the holster to her left in her face. "You're a bit easily distracted, Hawkeye!"

With that, he darted, if only to save himself from the wrath of a woman who would, in a moment or so, realize she still had a gun in her holster on the right, and though _she_ might not be afraid of bullets, he certainly was. The thought of a gunshot racing past his head was not something he could tolerate without being concerned, particularly if the gunwoman was Lieutenant Hawkeye herself.

A moment later, the gun was located, and she snapped, "Roy Mustang, you are _impossible!_" she hollered, and just seconds after that, the distinctive sound of a gunshot rang through the empty training hall.


	3. The Pounding of a Heart

Author's Notes: Yes, there is an ultrasound machine in this one. Yes, I know that they did not exist during the equivalent time here during the setting of the show. No, I do not care. I wanted to do a baby miniseries thing, so here is the first one. I don't care that ultrasounds didn't exist, there's nothing like hearing the baby's heartbeat for the first time. 

Don't own FMA, alas.

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66. The Pounding of a Heart

She had been quiet as they headed for the doctor's office, and even quieter sitting in the waiting room. She didn't respond to the majority of his questions, and when she did her answers were short and to the point.

When guided into the small examination room, she allowed him to help her backwards, closing her eyes as the technician came into the room. The elderly woman smiled, patting her hand and murmuring something about how amazing these machines were.

Cool gel was placed on her swollen stomach, and the elderly woman eased a small device over the skin, until the quiet _thump-thump, thump-thump_ pounding of a heart could be heard over the silence in the room.

"That's your baby's heartbeat, Mr. and Mrs. Mustang."


	4. In the Dead of the Night

47. In The Dead of the Night

At precisely 0203 hours, she shifted in the bed uncomfortably for the hundredth time that night. At 0204 hours, she got up, and by 0206 hours she was yelling for him from the restroom, and it roused him immediately, the fear in her voice snapping him to attention.

"Riza? Are you all right?"

He could hear scraping, and she finally opened the door, appearing particularly ashen.

"What's happened?"

Both hands groped for his, and when they touched, she met him with anxious amber eyes. "Roy…my water just broke."

He froze, and then, with routine and precision he had been rehearsing in his mind for months, he eased her back to the bedroom, where she changed. Slipping on their coats, the headed into the dead of the night, awaiting the arrival of a new life.


	5. Sleepless Night

46. All Night Vigil/Sleepless Night

At first, she was quiet as she handled the discomfort of labor. But after being awake for nearly twenty-four hours, she was less than capable of keeping her annoyance to herself, and had begun muttering obscenities around 0200 hours.

Riza had taken to pacing, stooping over, anything to ease the pain. She did take the time to point out, more than once, that childbirth seemed like it would be far more painful than any injury she ever received on the battlefield.

Ever vigilant, Roy stayed in the room with his irritated Lieutenant, patient and quiet as she tried desperately to not curse him to death for causing her this pain. When they had been there for two days after her water broke, he was at wits end and could only imagine how uncomfortable she must be. It was only the fear of being shot that kept the night in the hospital a sleepless one.


	6. So I'm Crying

Author's Notes: Likely the last in the baby-arc. I like this one the best if I had to choose one from the baby-arc.

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25. So I'm Crying

After what felt like years but had actually been only two and a half days, she gave birth. A healthy baby girl, for whom they could not decide a name. It didn't matter, because when the doctor laid the baby on her stomach, the woman fell into uncharacteristic sobs, her fingers gently smoothing over the child's cheek.

"You're crying," he said quietly, swallowing around a lump in his throat. Amber eyes never looked up from the child, instead still gently fingering the small, round face.

"So I'm crying," she murmured. Her gaze immediately shot up when she felt fingers dabbing at the tears on her face.

"So am I," he whispered, leaning forwards and pressing a kiss to her forehead.


	7. Murderer

Author's Note: I want to go a different way with this one. We know Roy has issues with the lives he took, but wouldn't she, as well?

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20. Murderer

She had been sitting at her desk for what felt like ages, staring down her teacup. Every few seconds, a waft of steam would rise from the mug, and pass her face; amber eyes remained fixated on the little whip of smoke, frowning. With such intent focus on the teacup and its contents, she didn't hear the door to the room open, and when she closed her eyes, the first word she breathed was _murderer_.

He froze immediately, and stared. This was not like his Lieutenant. She was good with timeliness and organization and particularly with maintaining a proper demeanor. Instead, here she was, staring down at her teacup and calling herself a murderer, and the meaning of that statement did not elude him. He knew _precisely_ what she was referring to, and carefully crossed the room, to her desk.

Her eyes were slightly glazed over, and he shook his head. The frown on her face was plastered so heavily that he wasn't even sure if she knew it, and he tilted her face upwards. She had been crying, he noticed, and he clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"Riza," he murmured, shaking his head. "You need to go home. It's late."

She shook her head, removing her chin from his grasp and biting her lip. "There is work to finish."

"Work that will be here in the morning," he swallowed, easing the cup from her hand and using his free hand to pull her to her feet. "This isn't where you need to be now."

Slowly, she nodded, and allowed herself to be led to the door, eyes downcast, head bowed. "Roy?"

He tilted his head, arm still protectively around her shoulder, and nodded in silent acknowledgement of her statement.

Her reply was simply the word she breathed earlier, but said with far more sorrow, more sorrow because she knew that not only was that who she was, but who she would continue to be, because she would shoot down opponents to her Colonel. "I'm a murderer."


	8. Welcome Home

Author's Notes: I do not own FMA, slight slight movie spoilers but really only if you know what happens in the movie, at least somewhat.

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99. "Welcome home"

When he first touched ground after being on that balloon contraption, she wanted to chastise him for being so foolish, for charging headlong into the situation without once pausing to think. She wanted to scold him for being so headstrong, for failing entirely to think before acting.

But as he approached her, she found her ability to form coherence sentences dissipate, and she swallowed nervously around a lump in her throat. His face was so familiar and yet had changed so much, and she wondered if he had seen the same changes in her.

So when she opened her mouth to scold him, she could feel the flush cross her cheeks when instead she murmured _welcome home_ into the lapels of his uniform jacket, burrowing into his warm embrace.


	9. Are You Satisfied?

Author's Notes: Don't own FMA. I'm also not doing these in order, I do them as inspiration strikes me.

One guess as to what happened. No major spoilers, but things are certainly implied.

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69. Are You Satisfied?

It was so easy to be angry for what had happened.

So easy to pretend that she was infuriated, that there was nothing beyond the seething frustration. So easy to pretend that there was nothing more there. She had a feeling, deep within the crevices of her mind, that it was a defensive response, and she chastised herself for it—chastised herself because it was foolish and childish and pathetic in so many ways.

But standing in front of a grave made it so pleasantly easy to act like a fool, to cry like a child and behave quite pathetically.

"Pitiful," she spat as she bit her lip. Her hands were buried deep within her pockets, and she let out a sigh. "You got what you wanted, sir. The whole military is being reformed. But was it worth the price?"

She stooped down to rearrange the flowers on the grave once again, shaking her head. "I hope that you are satisfied, sir."


	10. Watching Over You

Author's Notes: I do not own FMA, alas.

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76. Watching Over You

He had been asleep for approximately one hour, thirty-seven minutes, and twenty-three seconds.

The whole time, she sat silently across from him, internally grumbling that she didn't dare allow herself to sleep when it was the two of them in the train car alone. That would be unacceptable behavior, considering that someone needed to be watching. And she was so content to be that nameless sniper, watching over his form even when he wasn't aware that she kept a silent vigil.

One hour, forty-three minutes and fifty-six seconds into his extended nap, he shifted his weight uncomfortably, and murmured something incomprehensible. The second time he mumbled something, he had been asleep for merely one hour, forty-four minutes and six seconds, and this time she caught his words—_don't let them get too close._

Whatever dream he might be having, it was not pleasant, and she leaned forwards, knowing this behavior would be completely unacceptable if they were not alone.

"It's all right, sir," she whispered, her fingers gently smoothing out his hair. "I'm watching over you."


	11. The You Reflected in the Glass

Author's Note: I don't own FMA. So would love to own FMA, though.

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65. The You Reflected in the Glass

When Hawkeye-sensei had passed, she was at first overwhelmed, panicked and indecisive, and as soon as that side of her personality had appeared, it vanished and she was the same steely-faced young woman he best recognized.

When Brigadier General Hughes was murdered, she once again stood tall, but all the sadness was in her eyes. The amber color seemed to seep into what should have been white, and her gaze was soft and her touch was gentle when she finally pressed a hand against his shoulder to guide him out of the cemetery.

He was so used to her composure, so used to that straight-faced, tight-lipped expression that revealed so little. He was so accustomed to having to really read between every slight movement in the lines of her face to even begin to grasp what it was that was on her mind.

So, when he first woke in the infirmary, he was surprised to see her reflection in the window. Her face was drawn, eyes sunken and all the sorrow he had learned to find hidden in her expression was plastered heavily on her features. Instead of being the woman he knew, she was a mess, staring out at the rain. If it weren't for the consistent dripping of water outside the window, he would have been certain he could see tears on her pale face.

He tried to grasp his voice, and when it finally came to him, he slid out of the stiff hospital bed and crossed the room as silently as he could. He could see her eyes widen slightly when she saw him approaching from the reflection, but he pressed on, a hand on her shoulder. "There is something about you, Lieutenant," he said softly, smiling into her reflection as she stared and scrambled to replace her mask. "Something about the you, reflected in the glass."


	12. Kiss

Author's Note: I do not own FMA. Alas.

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91. Kiss

The stench of scotch was strong within the office, and she grudgingly opened the door, not even bothering to knock. Dark eyes glanced up at her, and she shook her head disapprovingly as she cleared his desk of the alcohol, murmuring something along the lines of 'not in the office, Roy', before helping her drunken Colonel to his feet.

Both of his hands were gripping desperately at her shoulders for balance, staring almost blankly at her. His breath reeked of alcohol, and her stomach lurched; she personally detested the scent and it only seemed worse when it was _him_ that was so terribly drunk.

"First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye," he declared, words surprisingly clear for the amount of alcohol he had consumed, "I love you." And with that, he inched forwards, and pressed a kiss on her cheek, and then greedily moved towards her mouth. She tensed beneath him, and then slowly eased into his touch.

Once finished with his statement, he slid away from her, sinking into the nearest chair.

Her smile was sad, and she simply shook her head. "If you would only say that when you were not intoxicated, sir."


	13. Feigning Sleep

Author's Note: I do not own FMA. Woe is me.

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57. Feigning Sleep 

Every trip on the train would proceed the same way, and he was so used to her behaviors that he wondered once what would happen if he only feigned being asleep, just this one time, to give himself the chance to enjoy her touch. Whenever her hands were sitting folded on her desk, or holding filers, or even aiming a gun, his eyes were drawn to them and to the gentle touch he knew they could also produce. Such forceful hands, and so gentle, at the same time. It astounded him.

He remained still in his seat, eyes shut, listening carefully for her movement. Just as he moved to feign a nasty dream, he could hear her shift positions.

"I know you are not asleep, Colonel," she declared sharply.

Opening his eyes, he tilted his head. "How would you know that, Lieutenant?"

It was her turn to smirk, "well, sir, you take an average of six deep breaths per minute when you are asleep, and more than that when you are awake. Considering you were taking about ten breaths per minute…"

He paused, brows slightly furrowed. "Why would you know that?"

She only shook her head slowly. "While you spend your trip feigning sleep, I spend it attempting to learn something _useful_."


	14. Conversation

Author's Note: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist. For the thousandth time

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30. Conversation

He valued the way she spoke with him. Every word she exchanged with him, every look of concern she shared and every night they sat late in the office discussing the events of the day—all of it was crystal clear in his mind no matter when it had occurred, and it _always _felt right. No matter the situation, he knew he could rely on her to listen to him and respond only in the most genuine of ways.

The evening had begun like every late evening in the office, though she seemed to be more tired than usual. Occasionally, her eyelids would droop, nodding off above the paperwork before snapping back to attention. It was difficult to stifle his laugh at her behavior despite her concern. When she had managed to nearly nod off three times, she shoved away from her desk, declaring that she was going to make some tea and she would bring him some as well.

She returned from her expedition less than five minutes later, two steaming hot mugs at hand. Carefully, she set one on his desk, before sitting back down at hers, amber eyes staring at the remaining work with a look of vile resentment. She took a sip of tea.

And it was quiet. Scratching pens and shuffling papers, all silence and work.

There was no need for small talk. Neither Mustang nor Hawkeye were people of many words, and whatever was said passed quickly and clearly from one to the other, concise and to the point. "I don't like what is happening in this government, Hawkeye."

She glanced up from her work, and nodded slowly. "I know that, sir. You're working to change the mistakes this government is making."

The _sir_ she added to her statements was perhaps the only unnecessary word she'd say in a sentence. It disgusted him, though at the same time it fascinated him, how she could formulate the precise response to any comment thrown at her without batting an eyelash.

"I'm hardly making progress towards that goal."

He heard the quiet click of the pen being capped, a drawer being slid open to tuck the writing utensil away. "I do not agree with that statement, sir." He glanced up from his desk to see that she was staring directly at him, gaze layered with concern.

For a moment, he simply gazed at the expression on her face. Beyond her words were the expressions that she shared without saying a thing. More often than not, her features could fill in and account for every unsaid word. And once again, without fail, she caught his subtle frustration. She caught the slight fear that he might not achieve his goal. And, like every time before, her response eased the weight on his chest.

"That means a lot to me, Lieutenant," he said softly, folding his hands on the desk. "Thank you."

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Thanks to everyone who has reviewed thus far! Please **read and review**, it makes me happy. Thanks for reading :)


	15. Death

Author's Note: I don't own FMA. It'd be cool if I did, though. This disclaimer gets annoying after a while; don't we already know this?

Anyway. Drabble about death. Tried to not be so definitively angsty about it as I usually am. Probably was angsty anyway. Please **read**, **review**, and **enjoy**!

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6. Death

Lengthy train rides, she had learned over time, brought out the worst in her character; as a result, she often chose to sit near _him_, only because he kept her in line. The length of such rides gave her ample opportunity to think and speculate and remember. It had always been the finality of death that unnerved her. The irony in that statement was that she would stand and pull the trigger countless times, watching people fall to their death. _Time and time again_, and the concept disgusted her. Blood. Her hands were saturated with blood, they dripped of blood and all the scrubbing in the world would never wash them clean. And that hardly scratched the surface of the filthy state of her _soul_—

"Lieutenant?"

She glanced at him, gaze shifting from the window. "Yes, sir?"

"Is something bothering you? Your hands were trembling."

Charcoal eyes watched her intently, his gaze focused steadily on her. She seemed rather unnerved that he had noticed, though if the expression was present on her face for more than a moment, he wouldn't know. Eyes strayed to her hands, now clenched tightly together in her lap, knuckles turning white against her cream skin. He shook his head slowly. It was unlike her to be so visibly bothered, and he wished he could help. He had noticed, however, that she often sat near him on the train for lengthy rides, particularly when she forgot her book. He had to wonder if that was a deliberate act.

"It's nothing, sir," she replied quietly.

"That's not true." His response was stern, a statement with a question hidden beneath it. He wanted to know what caused that distant look on her face, the eerie look that resembled a child seeing a ghost. He wanted to know, if only so he could help her as she so often helped him.

"I was thinking," she stated softly, voice nearly a whisper, "about the finality of death."


	16. Weapon and Fine

Author's Note: Initially, the idea for this story came from I-don't-know-where, but it wasn't intended for this little challenge. And then I saw the prompt "Heiki (weapon) and heiki (fine)", and all of a sudden, it was perfect.

Please read, review and enjoy!

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5. Heiki (weapon) & Heiki (fine)

Lieutenant Hawkeye consistently kept herself well covered. The military uniform obscured her lithe frame, which only became visible without the standard-issue jacket. Even off-duty, she remained covered. Generally a blouse and sweater. But that _skirt_. His eyes were drawn to it immediately, perhaps because it was so dark, or perhaps because it looked so particularly uncomfortable.

Or because of the rather long slit up the side.

He wanted to stare at it, ogle even, because it was her _skin_, her flesh and something about it was infinitely enchanting about that. It wasn't even a conspicuous sort of skin-showing, it was just slight. Just enough to have him beyond curious about that skirt. And he would have stared, until she caught his gaze. Her right trigger-finger twitched just slightly when their eyes met. He averted his gaze immediately.

That response indicated the purpose of the slit in that skirt. She was armed, and just above where the fabric met, was likely where the holster of her gun was. He wanted desperately to stare just in spite of himself, and he determined, after little thought, that the fine for staring would be something he would just have to pay.


	17. Tomorrow Too

Author's Note: I don't own FMA. Alas.

I feel like I may have read something similar to this, which irks me beyond belief. If this sounds familiar to you, please let me know. I feel like I may have gotten the idea from elsewhere but I can't for the life of me figure out where. Please **read, review **and **enjoy**!

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96. Tomorrow Too

She stormed into the bar, causing quite a bit of ruckus. The drunken men turned and began to murmur things that shouldn't be said to an armed woman, and she ignored them, amber eyes fixated on her target on the opposite side of the room. He was slumped in a chair, staring at the glass of alcohol in his hand. When she approached him, he hardly moved, though his eyes just slightly shifted to look at her.

"You have had enough, sir." Slender hands moved to yank the glass from his grip, slamming it harsh onto the bar. Her frustration was evident to everyone spare the man she came to retrieve. "You need to go home." She had her fingers wrapped around his shoulder, gently pulling him to his feet. He stumbled a bit, and then glanced at her blankly.

"You smell like you always do," he slurred, charcoal eyes slightly fogged over, "gunpowder and smoke. Why'd you...stay to train on your night off?" His words would be nearly incomprehensible to anyone spare her, who recognized each statement. She disregarded his question, instead yanking his coat off of the rack and slipping it over his form. Her hands worked with the skill of a person who had done this before.

The walk back to his apartment was quiet. He could stand on his own, but he staggered and could hardly walk straight. She stood to his immediate right, pushing him just slightly to keep him walking as though he wasn't quite as inebriated as he was.

Shuffling up the stairs, she took his key from his pocket, unlocking the door to his apartment. With expertise, she guided him inside, removed his coat and hung in on the rack as she then guided him to his bedroom. He sank onto the bed, and she braced herself for tonight's cause of intoxication.

"I don't want to be alone," he murmured, voice wavering just slightly. Charcoal eyes shot to her face, desperate. "Will…you stay?"

She stiffened, but then nodded, a hand gently smoothing his hair. "Of course, sir."

A pause, as he relaxed against her gentle touch and sank back into the bed. Then, "will you be here tomorrow too?"

She nodded slowly, again running her fingers through his dark hair before carefully pushing him back against the bed, taking the blankets and tugging them over his form. "Yes sir, tomorrow too."


	18. Home Cooking

Author's Notes: Sadly, I do not own FMA, but it'd be really cool if I did. Of course, saying that every time doesn't mean I will own it, but I like to say it anyway.

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31. Home Cooking

"I told you, sir," she says quietly as she nudges the door to his apartment open with her foot, "that if you didn't take care of yourself, you'd catch the cold going around headquarters." She had a pot carefully balanced in both hands as she steps out of her shoes in the small alcove.

She shakes her head. He must still be in bed, which is where she had left him earlier this afternoon after sending him home. Quietly, she moves to his kitchen, placing her small pot on the stove and searching for a bowl and spoon, which she finds after a bit of looking. Glancing over her shoulder, she pours a bit of soup into the bowl, and then tiptoes to his bedroom.

Knocking on the door, she pokes her head in. "Sir?"

Groggily, he lifts his head from the pillow. Charcoal eyes widen when he realizes just who is standing in his bedroom doorway. "Lieutenant?"

She smiles, nodding. "I brought you soup. My mother always told me that there was nothing like home cooking to chase away a cold."


	19. Cold Hands

49. Cold Hands

In so many years of devoting his life to the military, there was one thing he came to expect. And that unwavering and repetitive expectation was death. No matter how carefully things were planned out, no matter how meticulously each detail was poured over and mapped, death was inevitable. Such was the life of a soldier.

This surely explained why this was not the way he pictured to see her for the last time.

No, the whole scenario was different from what he had tried desperately to prepare himself for. For so long, in his darkest nightmares, he would picture her form riddled with bullets or stabbed with a knife by some indeterminate source. Obsidian eyes would watch the stiff blue fabric of her uniform jacket stain a familiar, but sickening, shade of purple. Time and time again, he would watch her body fall—seeing her falter for both the first and last time.

It was unexpected, then. To find her in a morgue, of all the places she could have been. He had been called to identify her remains, as she had no family in the immediate area. She had been reported AWOL—the irony did not escape him, then, when he remembered that he was the one to report her absent without leave, a habit so unlike her. So when the military police found a corpse of a young, fair-haired woman in a military uniform, they placed two and two together, and her Colonel was called.

The whole sterile setting was impersonal. The metallic walls and strong scent of disinfectant gave the room a feeling of being surreal; some figment of his imagination. After crossing to the hard, steel bed that her lifeless frame was one and watching the nurse peel back the white sheet, he found himself desperately _wishing_ this was a figment of his imagination if only it would bring her back.

One thing that always remained constant in his mind was the images of her death. A death that he knew was inevitable because he knew from the start that she would unhesitatingly take the bullets aimed at him and throw her life on the line. The whole room reminded him of one other thing he always pictured along with death—the cold. The eerie feeling of a lifeless body, unmoving and as cool as ice.

He tugged off his gloves, leaning forward just slightly over the bed, gently rubbing his fingers against hers, an action promptly followed by an involuntary shiver. Her hands, which were once so gentle, dedicated, and warm, were cold as ice.

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Well. I don't know where this came from. This is a second version of this, edited and whatnot. I like this one better than the original. Please read and review!


	20. Dog

36. Dog

First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye was never late for work. So when her usual arrival time came and went, he started to worry. Five minutes after her usual arrival time, he was panicked. By twenty minutes, he was beside himself—until the telephone rang.

"Colonel Roy Mustang." He jumped at the phone, nearly knocking it off of the desk.

"Sir—I apologize for being so late—I need to ask for the morning off."

It was her. He breathed a sigh of relief, now aware of the fact that she was all right, uninjured. "Is everything all right, Lieutenant? You sound upset."

"Yes, yes sir, I'm fine. I've just brought Black Hayate to the veterinarian; he was acting strangely. I'm just a bit worried about him." He leaned into the sound of her voice, trying to pick up the words she didn't say. To state that she was _just a bit worried_ about Black Hayate was the equivalent of any other woman tearing out their hair, in hysterical tears.

"I'm sorry. Would you like some company?"

He could hear a sharp intake of breath, realizing that he surprised her. "Oh, no sir. I couldn't ask you away from work."

But the sound of desperation in her voice struck him, and he knew immediately that she was desperate for company. "That's all right, I'm certain my paperwork will be here later. Where are you? I'll be there in a short while."

She was at the precise address she had told him, sitting quietly in a chair in the small waiting room. She had removed her military jacket, and was fussing with the epaulette just to move her fingers. He had to smile; ordinarily, she would have cleaned her gun quite a few times by now. Of course, being in a public place made that prospect inappropriate.

"Lieutenant."

Startled, she jumped up from her seat in a salute, but he immediately began to wave a hand at her, putting her at ease. "Good morning, sir," she said quietly, dropping her arm. She looked exhausted, he noticed then—dark circles under her eyes as though she hadn't slept the night before, and the slight frown on her face. "You didn't need to come."

He smiled at her, taking the seat beside her, folding his hands in his lap. "No, I didn't need to, but I wanted to. How is Black Hayate?"

She swallowed, amber eyes shifting to the floor. "He…" she paused then, voice wavering as she tightened her hands around an item in her lap, "he must have eaten something. Some sort of poison." Finally, she opened her palms, revealing the thin red collar and dog tag she was holding. Suddenly, it was clear to him. The small dog had died.

His smile faded. Black Hayate, the _true_ dog of the military and friendly companion of nearly everyone in his office, was dead. It wasn't the same as losing an officer, but it certainly felt like it came close and he inched closer to her, placing a hand over the dog's collar, over her open palm. "I'm sorry Riza," he said quietly.

Her free hand found its way into his, and she closed her eyes, the hand entangled with his tightening into his grip. "T…thank you for coming, sir." She squeezed the small dog collar in her hand, tilting her face away from him. "I couldn't do this alone."

* * *

Yeah, angst parade. I chose to write this to get some stuff off of my mind; my cat was just diagnosed with cancer. So I know exactly how Riza feels. Not to mention, I could see this happening; dogs rarely outlive their parents, and this would be something that I could see Riza _desperate_ to handle alone. Which is why I think Roy would step in to try and be there for her. Please read and review. Poor Black Hayate (


	21. Hair Clip

52. Hair Clip

The small, brown hair clip she wore in her hair on a daily basis had always been the most practical of things, as far as he had noticed. It managed to hold the long cornflower-yellow tresses up and tight, properly in place, throughout the day. It was a practical little device, plain and simple.

Their trip had been fairly uneventful; they went to the East Headquarters to check up on things. Hawkeye had fallen asleep on the train nearly half an hour ago, her forehead resting against the glass as she rested. He was peering across at her, drinking in the strangely relaxed form of his First Lieutenant, when he noticed the clip.

As the sunlight danced across her sleeping form, it illuminated the crevices in the clip. What had once been a plain hair clip suddenly was revealed to have an intricate design. A small, circular pattern wound its way up and down the clip. It nearly imitated an alchemical array. When he peered closer, he had to swallow back surprise. In the lower corner, hidden in the runic patterns of the barrette, was exactly what he thought he had seen. The familiar array that he could draw with his eyes closed, the small flame resting in the upper center and the salamander on the bottom.

In the lower right corner of that hair clip was the exact replica of his alchemical array.

It took a moment or so, but the purpose clicked suddenly. His ever-faithful and loyal First Lieutenant meant to carry around a replica of his array, so should something happen to his gloves, there would be yet another array to use. The practicality of it being hidden in her hair clip didn't elude him.

By then, she was stirring, and shortly thereafter, amber eyes were staring at him, puzzled. "Sir? What are you staring at?"

He bit back a laugh, folding his hands in his lap. "You are always beyond practical, Lieutenant Hawkeye," he said quietly, leaning forwards. One hand slid closer to her; her eyes followed it warily as it traveled past her cheek to her hair. He unsnapped the clip, and held it in range of their vision.

His finger rested gently over the circle in the lower right corner and her eyes widened when she realized that he had finally noticed it. "Thank you."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **This is so…random. The original plan was to have her somehow break her first clip, and Roy would notice that it had some sort of pattern on it which he hadn't expected.

Then…this happened. Don't ask me how, because I have no idea.

Bizzy says **I don't own FMA** (someone wanna get it for me for Christmas?!)


	22. Fingertips

50. Fingertips

"Sir?"

Hawkeye was sitting quietly on the bench at the train station, buried as deeply under her coat as she could, her hands tucked away in gloves and head carefully covered by a hat. All of the snow that fell the evening before left the air frightfully chilly. She had noticed, a few moments ago, that her superior officer had taken to rubbing his hands together and then stuffing them into his pockets, grumbling the whole while about how he forgot his gloves.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

"If your hands are so cold, don't you have your gloves with the sigil on them?"

He sighed, as though this were an option he had concluded several times already. "I do. But they have the sigil on them. One false move and—it isn't worth the trouble."

That declared, he went back to rubbing his hands together in frustration.

"Sir?"

He froze, turning then. "What now, Lieutenant?"

She was tugging her gloves off, beckoning his hands closer to hers. The moment they could reach, she wrapped her smaller hands around his. As her fingers had been in the gloves, her hand was surprisingly warm, and the moment they touched his hands stopped trembling.

Hawkeye, on the other hand, was smiling, though _her_ hands were now shaking just slightly.

"What's the matter?"

She shook her head, "it's nothing, sir."

"Your hands are shaking," he replied starkly, determined to find the cause.

She laughed a bit, nervously. "Your fingers are like ice."

He paused, and then smirked at her, "Are they?" The mischievous look on his face unnerved her, and she took a step away. She didn't have the chance to get far before he had pressed both hands under her hat, directly against her forehead. She let out a startled squeal, pulling away from him again.

Mustang only took a step closer when she pulled away, grinning maniacally. She was a serious woman, but she did not tolerate the cold well, which made warming his hands up all the more fun. "Come on, Lieutenant, stay still—I can't even feel my fingertips!"

She let out a cry in protest, "they're so _cold_!" Hawkeye pulled his hands away from her, and held one of his wrists tightly as she slid one of her smaller gloves on him. She did the same with his other hand. "There." That said, she sat back down on the bench, hands folded in her lap.

A moment or so later, she was doing the same thing as he had been doing, rubbing her hands together and then slipping them into her pockets to keep them warmer. Mustang glanced from the warm gloves on his hands to her, and then sat down beside her, gingerly taking both of her hands in his. "My, my, Lieutenant. Your fingertips are like ice."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** I need to like...quit the randomness. Seriously.

And I sitll don't own FMA. Alas.


	23. God

22. God

Author's Notes: Does this specifically focus on God? No, no it really does not. The Cathedral they are referring to is Saint Patrick's Cathedral in New York City. I know that NYC doesn't exist in FMA-land, but…the idea is based on them actually being in the city during Christmastime (and yes, I know Christmas doesn't exist in FMA-land either.)

"That's odd."

The voice was familiar, stuffing his hands into his pockets to ward off the chill. Dark hair and eyes peered at her; standing in front of a large cathedral, people milling about to get in and out of the building. "I didn't plan on meeting you here, Hawkeye."

Hawkeye turned away from the building, surprised. "Ah—hello sir. I could say the same thing to you."

Mustang smirked. "Well, I came to look at—"

"Did you go inside to see the cathedral, sir?"

He tilted his head just slightly. "No, I didn't, nor do I plan to; you know my opinion on God, Lieutenant."

She sighed, shoulders slouching in the heavy winter coat she was tucked under. "That's a shame. It's a beautiful building." Hawkeye slowly folded her gloved hands together, shivering, and turning to look back at the cathedral. "Even if you have no belief in God."

He found himself smiling. "You know, Lieutenant, I never pictured you for one to enjoy looking at architecture and art."

Hawkeye slid her hands into her pockets, still staring down the building. "My mother imbued a great appreciation of art in me. This city is so beautiful, decked out for the approaching holiday. I thought it might be worth my while to go and see the religious reasoning behind the festivities."

He paused, following her gaze to the heavy, ornate oak doors as people hurried in and out. "Well," he said quietly, pondering the building, "you shouldn't go alone. Perhaps I could join you?"

Again, she turned from the door, smiling just slightly. "That would be nice, sir."


	24. O'Child Sama

54. O'Child Sama

Quick Author's Note: I don't know what 'sama' means. So it's just going to be about a _child_. And yes, Sarah talks like a child. She is only two, don't be mean!

* * *

Little Sarah Elizabeth Mustang was a handful, to say the very least. She had the strange habit of bouncing around the house like the energizer bunny and asking questions that should not be concerning her for many, _many_ years—questions which often gave her parents a nasty headache. Her raven hair mimicked her father's, whereas her eyes were the same fiery amber color as her mother's. People always remarked on how the girl looked like a perfect blend of her two parents.

"Mommy?" Sarah bounded down the stairs, teddy bear in hand, prancing into the kitchen. "Mommy, mommy, _mommy_!"

The fair-haired woman turned, smiling tiredly. "You are supposed to be taking your nap, Sarah."

Sarah ignored the phrase, and instead responded with her own question. "Mommy, do…do you dink daddy can deach me dat?"

Riza Hawkeye-Mustang froze. _That_ could entail any host of things to be taught. Understanding the two-year-old's words was a task in and of itself when one wasn't concerned with the questions, but speaking Sarah Elizabeth's language was something her parents had mastered long ago. "Teach you what?"

"…Dat…dat thing he does wif his fingews, mommy. Dat thingy," Sarah was holding her hand in the air, trying to snap her fingers—at the very least, that was what the action appeared to be mimicking.

"That? No, your father cannot teach you that."

"But," the voice whined, fingers latching onto her mother's pants, "mommy why no? I wanna learn dat, I wanna learn dat and be smart like daddy and learn dat, mommy."

"_That_ is dangerous, and you're too young to learn that. Okay, Sarah?"  
The child contemplated this, and then sniffled. "But I wanna learn dat, mommy…"

"I said no. Maybe when you're a little bit older," Riza's finger's ruffled the long, dark hair of the child. "Right now it's not safe for you. But if you ask daddy nicely, maybe he will show you."

This immediately interested Sarah, who clapped enthusiastically, cheering a _yay_ before sprinting out of the room in search of her father. Down the hall, out the back door and into the yard, exactly where she had _last_ seen her father.

"Daddy!" Sarah gripped her teddy bear as if for dear life and skipped into the yard. "Daddy, daddy, daddy, _daddy_!"

Roy Mustang smirked, not turning at his child's voice. Instead, he folded over the page of the book he was reading and waited for the child—the child who, soon enough, climbed up on the chair and into his lap. "What a surprise! Hello, Sarah. Aren't you supposed to be taking your nap right now?"

"Nope, no nap now daddy. Mommy said…mommy said you not deach me dat thingy you do wif your fingews."

Roy smirked, now holding the child's shoulders to keep her steady in his lap. "No, I can't teach you that. Your mother was right."

"Can mommy deach me dat thingy?"

_That thingy_ was almost as bad as _that_. "What do you mean by 'that thingy'?"

"Dat thingy!" Sarah exclaimed, jumping out of her father's lap and onto the soft grass. "Dat thingy wif da…wif da thingy dat…" she raised both hands, pointing one finger, "dat thingy dat makes bad peoples stop doing bad peoples thingies, daddy. Dat thingry."

Immediately, the child's request made sense. "No. Your mother is not planning on teaching you how to use a gun, Sarah."

"But daddy dat thingy! Mommy does dat thingy and I wanna…I…I wanna do dat…and I wanna be strong too, daddy!" Sarah protested, turning on the charm and climbing back into her father's lap.

"No. Sorry."

"But _daddy_!" The voice whined. "Mommy says you won't deach me dat and you said mommy won't deach me _dat_ and how'm I 'apposed to be smart like youuu!" She started sniffling, and then full-on crying as she turned her head against her father's shoulder.

Roy ran his fingers through the girl's hair. "I think someone is tired."

"I am _not tiwed, _daddy!"

"I think you are tired," he replied quietly, still stroking the top of the child's head. "Why don't you just sit here for a little bit?"

The child sniffled, but burrowed her head into Roy's shoulder. "Not tiwed, daddy."

"I know," he replied quietly. "Sit here with daddy for a little bit though."

Both father and daughter were resting in the afternoon sun when Riza made her way to the backyard nearly a quarter of an hour later. "Hm," she said softly, doing her best to restrain a snicker. "Looks like _both_ of you were tired."

Carefully, the woman disentangled daughter from father and gently nudged the father awake. Confused, Roy looked around before grasping what had happened. They must have _both_ nodded off when he tried to get Sarah to rest. "She's still asleep?" He whispered.

Riza nodded, balancing the child's head against her shoulder. "I had a feeling you could get her to sleep," the mother said softly. "You always have a knack of taking her nap with her. She loves that."

He sniggered just quietly, slipping up from his chair and pressing a kiss atop the dark hair of his child, and then the forehead of his wife. "Like mother, like daughter."


	25. Quirks

67. Quirks

Supposedly, everyone had their own quirks, little and often strange habits that they tended to repeat. Some had nervous quirks, others had ones that they would revert to when overly excited. Still others had quirks that reveals when they were hurting or upset.

Each one of the people he had come to know in his lifetime had their own little quirks. Havoc chain-smoked like a chimney when he was worried or bothered about something. Fuery could hardly pass a stray animal on the street without a fairly large morality-related pang of guilt. Falman would never give an answer that wasn't strictly by the book. Hughes would throw pictures around like confetti until he was certain everyone got their fair share.

One person whose quirks he was _fascinated_ by, however, was Lieutenant Hawkeye. Hers were subtle, and only noticeable if one was looking. Her nervous habit was to clean her gun. To any outsider, it looked practical, logical and even necessary. But to those who knew better, the impulsive cleaning of a weapon that she kept pristine _anyway_ was obviously one of the woman's little quirks. Her trigger finger tended to twitch when her temper was getting the better of her; her eyes would narrow when she was completely through with listening to someone's conversation.

The one quirk he had not expected, then, was one that was only revealed to him when they were alone. Sitting on the train one day, after she had cleaned her gun—twice—he had already come to the conclusion that she was nervous. Though he couldn't place a finger on why, he knew her well enough to be certain that gun-cleaning, particularly _obsessive_ and _unnecessary_ gun-cleaning was a nervous habit.

So when she put the gun away, and folded her hands in her lap, imagine his surprise when the woman started hiccupping.

He had to pause, trying to catch the little gasp again. "…Lieutenant?"

She flushed crimson, vision shifting to the window. "Yes…_hic_…sir?"

By then, he was desperately trying not to laugh. "Why do you have the hiccups?"

Her fingers gripped tightly together, and she bit her lip, still hiccupping. "Sir…_hic_…you…you do know that you…_hic_…talk in your sleep?"

* * *

Author's Notes: Three guesses as to _what he said_ in his sleep to make her so nervous. The randomness of this one is…unsurpassed, I think. 


	26. Before Falling Asleep

58. Before Falling Asleep

A long time ago, he noticed that she rarely nodded off—even on long train rides to inconsequential towns on the far borders of the country. It never mattered how tired she appeared to be or how long their day had been, she sat stiff as a board, staring out the window or cleaning her gun, ears perked just slightly and listening avidly to the sounds of the train. He asked her once why she was so insistent upon being awake, but she did not present him with a suitable answer.

He was almost positive she was falling asleep now, though, with her yellow head inching forward just slightly as the train rocked and there was a gentle thumping in time with the bumps in the track. He smirked to himself at the irony of the situation. Even his stiff First Lieutenant, who never nodded off no matter the circumstances, could give in to tiredness—while he had managed to get a bit of rest during their two-day expedition, he had never once heard her return to the small motel room for a few hours of sleep.

She seemed so uncomfortable, he noticed. During their trip, she had been injured. Surely a sprained wrist and a few nasty cuts were not going to _kill _her—they hadn't yet—though he thought they could have when it happened. Now, however, she just looked as though she _hurt_, her eyes snapping open every once and again as she struggled to stay awake.

He swallowed, contemplated his actions, and then placed a hand on the top of her head, the weight gentle and as comforting as he could muster, trying to just slightly encourage her head to the left so she could rest it against him. "You don't need to stay awake, Lieutenant," he murmured.

To his surprise, in her half-asleep stupor, she submitted to his gentle movement, her temple pressed just slightly against his shoulder as closed her eyes without hesitance. "Thank you," she whispered, nestling just slightly more against him.

He smiled proudly, now resting a hand protectively on her leg. He had never thought she looked more beautiful than when she finally allowed herself to fall asleep.

* * *

Author's Notes: Mm…random. I know this isn't great, I feel like I lost my Royai muse during the Winter Intersession (I had NO time for writing, at all), so I'm trying to get back into the swing of things. I hope you liked this…I tried. 


	27. Proof

12. Proof

It was an old photograph. She noticed that the Colonel rarely smiled for pictures; never a true smile. In some photographs, there would be a slight upwards turn of his lips, a tiny spark in his eye—but never a smile. It seemed as though he never wanted his true nature to be caught on film, as if revealing a lighter side of his personality would be detrimental to whatever image he was trying to portray.

This simple fact is what made the proof of this one particular photograph so special to her. The actual film was destroyed quite a few years ago, when the building where she sent her few photographs to be developed caught fire and was burned to ash; when that happened, she never got to order a proper printout of the image. Now, the proof was the only scrap of the memory left for her to hold on to.

He had been terribly amused by something or other, perhaps a comment or a photograph or something of that nature, and had been trying so hard to keep himself from laughing at the nonsense of it all. His attempt had been useless, however, as he had ended up guffawing away, dark eyes shining and slightly bent over from lack of oxygen. She had never found another picture that seemed to suit him—and betray him—so completely. So every night, she focused her gaze on the proof of that photograph for a moment or so, to remind herself of the man she had devoted her life to protecting. And without fail, she found herself laughing along with the image of her Colonel.

* * *

Author's Notes: Ahh…I liked the idea of this. I do not necessarily like the execution. But I do love the idea of her having a picture that just…goes against what we usually see of him, a picture of him happy.

A proof of a photograph is an initial printing, a trial print from the negatives (according to dictionary dot com).


	28. The Scent of Blood

15. The Scent of Blood

When he woke, it was dark. Completely dark. He was assuming his eyes were open but his head throbbed so much he couldn't tell and was incapable of being bothered to try. One hand wearily rose to his head, fingertips brushing against the smooth white fabric of bandages. He could feel something soft, which he presumed to be his hair—and rightfully so, as his tug at the strand only hurt more.

He couldn't hear much in the room. Nothing was beeping, he didn't hear any breathing, footsteps. Nothing. In a disturbing way, it was frightening. The silence was unusual—in the office someone was always chatting, someone filing papers, moving about in their seats or shuffling about the room. In his apartment, there was an old woman down the hall who invariably cried out at night for her long-since-dead husband. He was so unused to silence that the absence of sound was making him nervous.

And then, footsteps. Shuffling steps, but still with military precision. He could hear the click of boots in a quiet, steady rhythm that he had come to expect a few paces behind him. It was his First Lieutenant. Even being unable to see her, he knew.

"How did you get hurt?"

His last memory of her was leaving her to take care of her portion of the mission. Now, he could smell the blood on her, the distinctive iron scent of it making him ill to his stomach. She was not injured the last time he saw her. She was in perfectly good health the last time he saw her.

It didn't matter who did it to her. It didn't matter that the scent he picked up upon was weak and not nearly as strong as the fields of Ishbal or the room where he had faced his adversary. But the scent was _there_, and on her no less. It brought back distinct memories of concern for her well-being, and relishing in the awkward smell of gunpowder, smoke, and blood that she most often gave off during their time in Ishbal.

"I didn't," she said softly, inching towards his bedside. Her fingers touched his, and he froze, the sorrow in her voice almost effectively concealed. "You did."


	29. At the Window

60. At the Window

**Manga-Verse Spoilers**. Past of Roy and Riza.

* * *

After everything was settled—the coffin buried beneath six feet of soil, final effects of the parent arranged and taken care of, and the alchemical array properly memorized—he chose to leave. He made this decision based solely upon the fact that he couldn't _look_ at her.

He couldn't look at the girl whose father thought she was bloody _notebook paper_, for God's sake. He couldn't look at the girl who was orphaned and alienated by her entire family. He couldn't look at the girl who would spend the rest of her days cleaning up that old decrepit house, pretending that she was enough to fill the expansive rooms. He couldn't look at the girl who had nobody left to turn to, because he knew he wasn't enough.

So he chose to leave.

And that evening, in the rain—he hated the rain, and she said something about not liking it either though he didn't make a point to commit the fact to memory—he walked away from the house. He trudged through the mud and kept his eyes fixated ahead of him for fear of needing to turn back.

When he did turn, nearly far enough away to lose the distinctions of the old building, he saw a candle glowing in the upstairs window, the faintest shadow of a person's figure staring out into the rain. He knew, then, that if he couldn't bear to look at her, she would continue to keep her Hawk's eyes on him.


	30. Giddiness

70. Giddiness

Now, if he had to choose one of his subordinates to pin at being capable of holding their liquor, it certainly would have been First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. Her stern countenance and consistent level-headedness made it almost impossible to even imagine her on the verge of being tipsy, let alone inebriated.

Suffice it to say that he was thoroughly shocked when she was the first to develop the characteristic reddish glow to her cheeks and distant look into her eyes two drinks into the evening. Until then, he had never thought anything of her habit to drink water or perhaps soda pop when his team went out for drinks. Until this precise moment, at least.

She was sitting merrily at the bar, fingertips running along the top of the glass. Unlike his expectations, she was a particularly cheerful drunk. She made conversation and even allowed several inappropriate passes intended towards her more _feminine_ side by their coworkers.

All things considered, it was disturbing.

"Lieutenant, you're certain you're all right?"

"I'm fine, sir!" She answered her question with such excitement, and he couldn't quite figure out how she found such an inquiry amusing.

"You ought to go home. And you should not have anything more to drink," he returned, frowning.

"You worry too much. I'm just having a good time."

He quirked a brow, his voice lowering. "That is what concerns me."

* * *

Not so sure how much I like this, but I wrote it, so I'm posting it. 


	31. Scars

17. Scars

Author's Notes: I have two versions of this one. I can't really decide which I like better; I don't love either of them. SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER 50+ish.

He had told her that the scars would be unsightly. That, just as she wore a turtleneck now to hide the tattoo, the scars from burning the skin away would be just as visible and, therefore, the high neck would still be necessary.

She agreed, explaining that she was fully aware of this fact and that she still wanted him to do as she requested.

Neither of them were without their scars. She had quite a few; one from when she took a bullet to her left side, another from a bad fall and broken wrist during the move to Central Headquarters, another the result of a poorly executed office prank. He was not unmarred as well; the most visible was the burn markings against his stomach from his attempt to still the blood flow from an injury, still another was from an inadvertent slip and cut from the inner workings of a weapon.

Their bodies were not unscathed.

Even so many years later, however, he couldn't shake the feeling that the most massive scar on her body was the direct result of his actions. None of the other scars were from 'friendly fire', from a person she trusted. Just the large burn pattern across her back that had her bedridden for a week—that was from him.

She forgave him for what he had done—she had _asked_ him to do it, even. But he could never forgive himself.

* * *

Neither of them lived their life without scars. The visible ones on his inferior officer Riza Hawkeye, Roy found, he could trace in his mind as perfectly as he could draw his signature alchemical array. He was certain that there were similar scars that she could identify him by. It was simply another characteristic mark, a physical difference than distinguished them from the rest of the population.

There were, however, some scars that were not outwardly visible.

He had taken it upon himself, every year, to check up on them. They hadn't changed much since he had given them to her at her request, however he still felt a need to look at them. A visible marker of his sins. More often than not, she was keen to deny his request to see them, citing impropriety or the fact that the whole fiasco was unnecessary.

He stood firm.

Every year since he had dutifully burned the alchemical array on her back, on the same day as he had originally caused the wound, Roy Mustang would survey the scars he had left on her so many years ago.


	32. Implicit Rules

77. Implicit Rules

Author's Notes: Another one. Spoilers chapter 50+ish. Not the best but I wrote it and I like it.

Roy Mustang knew that there were rules in his Teacher's house. He knew that one of his designated chores was to make sure that the trash was taken out on time. He knew that every evening, all of the assignments he had been given to work on throughout the day needed to be completed to his Teacher's satisfaction. He knew that the small, blonde-haired girl who meandered about the house was not to be spoken to—and when conversation did occur she was strictly to be Miss Hawkeye, and he was Mister Mustang.

He usually only saw the girl at dinnertime, occasionally she would be in the halls gathering laundry or tidying up after her father. Every once and again, Roy wanted to talk to her. She was a constant fixture and always present, but he knew—_knew_—that he was not to converse with her.

His Teacher could not possibly want them to kindle a friendship, not when he hadn't introduced them.

It was one evening when his Teacher was out of town that Roy finally decided to blatantly defy what he was told to do. "Riza?"

The girl was standing in the kitchen, stirring a pot of something-or-other. She slowly turned, amber eyes meeting obsidian, and nodded slightly. Riza Hawkeye was only thirteen years old, but her eyes seemed far older than that. "Yes, Mister Mustang?"

Why couldn't she call him by his name? He did have one—and it was not Mister Mustang.

Roy hesitated. He hadn't planned further than this. "I wanted to see what it was like," he said softly. "Saying your name."

Riza turned, still holding the spoon, looking bedraggled and sad. "Breaking Father's rules?"


	33. Parting

73. Parting

[ Movie/End of series spoilers

Riza was the only one who managed to make it to the train station. It was pouring rain and the storm was growing worse with every passing moment—as she waited, she could feel bits of hail settling themselves into her hair and desperately wished she brought an umbrella instead of just wearing a raincoat. Shivering, she turned, still waiting for a head of raven-colored hair and one dark eye to appear. It did not.

She stayed at the station for nearly an hour, determined that he would arrive. He had known she wanted to see him before he left. The office had known, as well, and were happy to cover for her while she was absent. By the time the rain had progressed to heavy hail, she went inside the train station, arms crossed and brows furrowed. Her patience was beginning to run thin.

"Oh no."

A familiar voice snapped her from her reverie, and Riza looked up to see Jean Havoc standing in front of her. She wasn't certain how long she'd been standing in the train station by now, but she was certain that she would not leave until she said goodbye.

"Second Lieutenant Havoc…what brings you here?"

The blonde officer frowned, sighing. "I can't believe he didn't tell you."

Riza's gaze darkened, and she swallowed. "Didn't tell me what?"

"He took an earlier train…he's already long gone."


	34. Things One Cannot Understand

19. Things One Cannot Understand

**[Manga spoilers! Chapter 57 onward. "Past" spoilers, not plot spoilers**

There was one thing Roy Mustang had never understood about his teacher.

Surely, he could understand the time he spent on his research—hours upon hours of time pouring through notes and reading, always reading. He understood why the man was so strict; in such a short amount of time, there was so much to learn. Roy even understood, though he did not agree with, why the man lived in such a decrepit old house—there was some sort of attachment the man had to it.

Roy did _not_ understand what his teacher had done to his daughter.

She was a small girl for her age; quiet, polite and intelligent though for all of that she rarely spoke a word. The little blonde girl never so much gave a frown to her father, and for the life of him Roy couldn't figure out why his teacher would treat her with such…_distaste_. She floated through her own home like a ghost, picking up scattered dishes and misplaced papers, doing the laundry and putting everything away. He didn't have much time to pay mind to his teacher's daughter—not until his teacher's untimely and sudden death.

That afternoon, after the funeral, he watched her standing at her father's grave. A child who had grown far beyond her years; looking at the grave of a father who seemed not to care at all for her and a mother who had long since passed. He listened to her apologies for not taking care of the arrangements herself—he couldn't have left her to her own devices—and her plan for the future. How old was she, fourteen, maybe fifteen years old—and she was saying she would find a way to survive on her own. In the heavy atmosphere, it was almost too easy to mention his foolish dream to try and lighten her spirits, if only for a moment. It wasn't long before he regretted it…

As she agreed with him, as she said quietly that it was a wonderful dream, as she asked if she could trust her back to it, he realized he could just slightly see deep, etched black lines peeking up beneath her coat. As she agreed to show him her father's research, he thought it was perhaps just his imagination—maybe she fell from a tree, maybe it was a scar or…

Maybe it was a child who had been used for notebook paper.

She was shy at first, when she tried to explain how, exactly, her father had left behind his research. She seemed to struggle with how to show him the work, and Roy could do nothing but let her—he was too dumbfounded by the fact that the research was accessible. But finally she figured a way to show him the research in a way that would retain her modesty (though at the time he couldn't understand why she needed to maintain her modesty). And, holding that little black jacket tightly against her front, she turned her back to him.

He thought he might've been sick at the sight of it. There was no scar. There were lines, lines of a tattoo, lines of an intricate alchemical array inked throughout the entirety of her back. For longer than he realized, his vision was focused entirely on the array. He didn't notice that her shoulders were trembling slightly, or that her chest heaved as she hiccupped. He was far too caught up in the ever-growing fury that welled in his stomach, for what his teacher had done to his own daughter.

"My God…Riza…what did he _do_ to you?"

He had neglected to notice that she was on the verge of tears, and only became aware of it when she began to cry. Something about the reaction his statement prompted made him regret what he had said, and he carefully moved closer to her, a hand against her shoulder.

"I'm sorry…" he mumbled, hesitant. What did you say to a child who became living research notes, a living manuscript?

"N-no," she hiccupped, sniffling slightly. Already, she had stopped her tears. Already. As if she were embarrassed by them, disgraced by them. Once again, Roy couldn't help but wonder why—why his teacher had done this, what it was that she had done to make him use her like he had. "It's all right."

Roy swallowed, trying desperately to not hold his breath. This was not _all right_. This was not _okay_. There was no rational explanation to make this the right thing for her father to have done to her. There was no way to make this sound like a normal event, a young girl with an intricate tattoo all over her back because her _father_ thought it would be the best place to put it.

Even almost fifteen years later, fifteen years of pondering and processing and trying so desperately to grasp what made what Riza's father had done to her _all right_ as she had been so quick to claim, Roy still did not understand.

* * *

I liked the idea of this. I'm not sure how I feel about the execution...oh well. 


	35. Reaching Voice & Unreachable with Voice

16. Reaching Voice & Unreachable with a Voice

[ Manga spoilers again; chapter 57ish and onward; "past" not plot

"Riza Hawkeye, you are to _do as you are told_!"

An eleven-year-old Roy Mustang looked down at his book, tense and terrified to look up. He had never seen a man grow quite so large as his teacher, Mr. Hawkeye, when chastising someone—nor had he ever seen a child shrink so much as little Riza did while being hollered at. He wasn't even sure what she was being scolded for; she had been so quiet for the length of his stay thus far that he couldn't imagine what it was she could've _possibly_ done to warrant such anger from her father.

"I…I'm sorry…but…father it was an accident…"

Her voice sounded so quiet, so hesitant. Frightened. Frankly, Roy couldn't blame her—Mr. Hawkeye was an intimidating man on a good day.

He cringed when he heard the sharp slap of skin against skin, knowing that the only event that could have transpired was that his teacher had struck his daughter. The whimpering from Riza's corner of the room solidified his suspicions. "I do not _ever_ want to see you endanger me in such a way again. Am I making myself clear?"

"Y-yes father," she whispered, wiping her eyes.

Roy took that moment to glance up, puzzling over the unusual wording that his teacher had used. He realized that the small blonde was wearing her father's jacket, hastily thrown over whatever she was wearing beneath it. He realized that her hair was wet, dripping into her eyes and sticking to her forehead. She stood, her feet planted firmly against the floor and head bowed as if she were bracing herself for further verbal and physical assault.

None came.  
"You have disappointed me," he finally said, the words dripping with anger and vile disdain. "Get out of my study."

It seemed Riza was all too happy to take her leave and bolted from the room, leaving the slightest trace of wet footprints as she ran. Roy quickly ducked his head back into his work, hoping that his teacher would ignore his presence as the man often did.

"_You_ can get out of my study as well," Mr. Hawkeye snapped, suddenly in Roy's range of vision. "Leave your books here and get out, go amuse yourself elsewhere. You are wasting my time."

The boy looked at his teacher hesitantly, and then stood, bowed in respect, and quietly left the room.

_What_ had she done to make her father so angry with her? Roy could've followed the footsteps she left behind but it seemed foolish to waste the energy; his best guess was that she had headed as far away from the suffocating atmosphere of her home as she could.

She was easy to find, really, once he had learned where to look.

He wasn't surprised to find her sitting under the large oak tree in the overgrown backyard, knees curled tightly to her chest, crying quietly. He hesitated as he walked towards her, before finally sitting beside her on the ground. The nine-year-old barely looked up at him.

"Are you hurt?"

Her blonde head remained firmly pressed against her knees. Roy swallowed, gently slipping his hand as much as he could beneath her chin, tilting it upwards. Startled, he saw that she was bleeding slightly, the red pooling at the corner of her mouth. He took out a handkerchief, dabbing at the spot. "I can't believe he'd hit you so hard."

The child sniffled and wiped her eyes with her hands, but did not reply. It was when she wiped her mouth against the palm of her hand that he realized that it was possible she had bitten her tongue when her father struck her—he wasn't positive, but the thought made him feel just a bit better if it meant that the force of the blow wasn't what caused the bleeding. When she realized that he was staring, she immediately pressed her head back against her knees.

"I'm sorry," Roy replied, offering her the clean side of the handkerchief to wipe her eyes. She took it, amber eyes not seeing as she stared at him. "What did you do to make him so angry?"

He could almost feel her grow tense beside him, freezing in her place. He instantly regretted asking the question. It hadn't mattered to him that her father obviously had no interest in allowing them to become friends at the time he had just wanted to be civil with her—now all he wanted to do was get _through_ to her. She was nine years old; her father had just struck her with enough force to draw blood and he could only presume that she was so afraid to speak that she wouldn't even look at him. Her shoulders were shaking again, and he could hear her sniffling against her knees.

Roy's previous attempts at having conversation with her had been unsuccessful. Now he was almost certain he'd never be able to reach through to her.

* * *

Author's Notes: I'm not sure why I'm so stuck on them as children lately. Every idea I've had for them recently has dealt with them when they were younger. There could be so many dynamics to their relationship then, when they weren't bound by military law but instead by Hawkeye-sense instead.

I know. I made her father pretty cruel. But I have my reasons--the first and foremost being the treatment you see that he has given her in the manga (the tattoo). It infuriates me, and I just can't picture him being a caring, affectionate or even slightly attentive father. Furthermore, Riza says at his funeral that he 'at least' made her go to school properly.


	36. A Walk

33. A Walk

_Flame vs. Fullmetal_ anime episode spoilers. Sort of, not really.

Don't own FMA. Woe.

* * *

"It's late, Lieutenant. Are you planning on heading home any time soon?"

Colonel Mustang fiddled with the papers on his desk and stretched somewhat. He had spent nearly the entirety of his day on the parade grounds fighting Fullmetal shrimp and then a good portion of his evening trying to clean up the mess. By the time the escapade was over, he realized he still had a full day's worth of work to accomplish and grudgingly set about the task of at least starting it.

"Not until you've finished, sir," came the blonde's starch reply. Lieutenant Hawkeye hadn't even looked up as she responded; her gaze fixated on paperwork that probably didn't need to be addressed for another week or so.

"It's almost 2300 hours. Finished or not, I am going home," the colonel declared, pushing back from his seat. "There is one matter I need to address before I do so, however. Would you be so kind as to join me? It won't take long."

Immediately, she stood, nodding. "Of course, sir." He found himself grinning, both amazed and definitely amused by the fact that she was quick to agree to leaving. From where he stood, he could see the slight bags beneath her eyes; she was tired as well. It certainly hadn't helped that he and Edward had taken so long tidying up the parade grounds that she eventually began to pitch in as well in hopes that the day would end sooner. The two of them made quick, silent work of gathering their things and putting on their coats. Hawkeye had just grabbed her keys from her desk when Mustang swung open the office door, yawning.

"Permission to speak freely, sir?" Lieutenant Hawkeye followed him out the door and locked it behind them as they started down the hall.

"You've been off duty for three hours, you could've spoken freely _then_," the colonel replied flatly.

"Where, exactly, are you headed to so late at night that you need accompaniment?"

He smirked. "I suppose you'll see when we get there."

Whether Lieutenant Hawkeye was satisfied by this answer or not, her straight face gave no inclination either way and the walk was relatively quiet. She huddled under her coat slightly as the chill startled to get to her, wondering when they'd get to their destination. The streetlamps flickered dully, casting long shadows down the street as they trudged along.

"Fullmetal did a surprisingly good job today," he remarked quietly.

"He did, though I can't say I'm all that surprised. He's very talented for his age—he's managed to do things with alchemy that most won't even consider—binding his brother's soul to a piece of armor…"

He nodded, sighing softly. "I wish I had gotten the letter from them sooner. If I had—"

"Had you known they were looking for their father sooner rather than later or not, it would not change what they had had planned. Edward and Alphonse had the whole thing figured out _long_ before you even met them. It would not have changed what they did," she replied quickly. "You can't think you are responsible for that."

The silence draped heavily for a few moments. "No, I suppose not."

Stuffing her hands deep into her pockets, she cast him a sidelong glance, pleased to see that he wasn't looking quite as guilty as she might have otherwise expected from his earlier statement. Mustang seemed uncomfortable, though, and it was beginning to rub off on her; she could feel her nerves growing slightly frazzled and that incessant _creaking_ from that carriage down the block was not helping.

"And here we are," he declared, stopping in front of the small baby carriage, crossing his arms.

"A baby carriage, sir?"

Mustang leaned over, fussing with the blankets and, grinning with approval, stood back up straight, now cradling a small, orange striped kitten. "A kitten carriage, actually. I couldn't let Fullmetal know I was actually going to help him out."

She could feel her smile growing as she reached to scratch the cat's head gently. Several stray animals had found their way to headquarters today. "So you _are_ going to take in the cat for him."

"Now I didn't say _that_, at least not for Fullmetal. Alphonse was traumatized that he had to leave the cat behind. It's the least I could do for him," Mustang replied, quick to jump to the defensive.

She grabbed the blanket from the carriage and put it over the cat, moving just slightly closer to him than was proper for a commanding officer and subordinate, again gently petting the small orange ball of fur. "I think it's very kind of you to help the boys out."

* * *

Mm...I've had this idea in my head since I saw Flame vs. Fullmetal. I couldn't remember or find out what color the cat was so I picked orange because for some reason that's what I thought it was colored...I don't know if I like the execution of this as much...but I did like the idea.

Oh well.


	37. Unknown Past & Before We Knew Each Other

9. Unknown Past/ Before We Knew Each Other

_Manga spoilers chapter 57 on; "past" not plot.

* * *

_

Roy Mustang was an eager student. He was almost skipping down what should have been an imposing dark road to anyone his age. Today, he was going to meet the infamous Mr. Hawkeye—a famed alchemist in his own right—and try and convince the man to take him in as his student. Roy knew that Mr. Hawkeye had turned down quite a few young men begging for a chance to learn alchemy, but he was sure he'd be different.

From down the road a piece, the old dilapidated house looked far from frightening, really. But as the nine-year-old approached the looming oak doors…forget frightening. The house was downright menacing. He knocked sheepishly, almost hoping that nobody was home.

To his dismay, the door swung open and a tiny girl with long blonde hair appeared, staring up at him. Before he could even open his mouth to get a word in, she spoke, her voice timid and tired and strained. "Father told me to thank you for your kindness but to tell you that we're all right even though Mother just passed away." The whole sentence sounded rehearsed, a phrase that she had been taught to say. The child swallowed a hiccup, wiping her eyes. "P-please go home."

The door promptly slammed in his face.

Puzzled, he considered what had just happened, and then knocked again. The child appeared in the door, her face now streaked with tears. He didn't allow her time to speak. "Wait—don't close the door on me again." He steeled himself and the girl watched him, terrified, hands shaking as she took half a step backwards.

"I'm very sorry about your mother, but I'm not here to offer condolences." The statement sounded _far_ worse out loud than he had thought it would. "I'm very interested in alchemy, actually, and I was hoping to speak to Mr. Hawkeye…"

* * *

Almost twenty years later, Roy Mustang watched his subordinate stare out the window of the train, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. "Something on your mind, Lieutenant?"

For just a moment, as she turned to meet his gaze, Riza Hawkeye resembled that timid, frightening little six-year-old who had answered the door at the Hawkeye house so many years ago. "It's been exactly twenty years today, sir."

"Since we met?"

She shook her head slowly, "No, not exactly."

"Twenty years since what, then?" he asked, puzzled. Roy had always prided himself on his ability to keep track of dates.

The blonde tiredly looked back out the window. "The night you came to the old house, asking about learning alchemy…I was planning to do something very…foolish."

Roy swallowed. The word 'foolish' did not belong in any sentence pertaining to First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye unless said sentence was stating that she was not.

"You didn't, though," he mumbled thickly.

"No, I didn't. Before I knew you, before you were coming to study under my father, I had no reason to live in that house with a man who would never be the same without his wife…the thought of doing so was frightening, and I had had a whole plan figured out on how to leave." There it was again, he saw—the look of a terrified six-year-old. He realized then that he had interrupted her that evening, and maybe had played a role in stopping her from what was most likely a dangerous plan.

He glanced around them, seeing that the train compartment was empty before resting his hand atop hers. "It doesn't matter what happened before now; what happened after is much more important."

* * *

Author's Notes: (1) Do not own FMA, sadness

(2) EEK! I posted part of this oneshot earlier today without the ending. I fix now!


	38. Telephone

34. Telephone

Anime/Manga spoiler! Episode 25/Chapter 15 (same event)

For realz, I don't own FMA. Must we go over this?

* * *

He didn't like the idea of telephone booths. Too many memories and too many fears. He couldn't walk past one, even so many years later, without a gruesome, vivid image of Maes Hughes' dead body lying slouched in one. Even now, the sight of a telephone booth could turn his stomach. And from the day of Brigadier General Hughes' death forward, his stomach tied itself into knots when he received a telephone call from an outside like.

"Colonel Mustang, First Lieutenant Hawkeye is on the telephone, calling from an out—"

"Put her through," Mustang spat, his fingers tightening around the receiver.

"Hello sir." For a woman who could be in very real danger, Lieutenant Hawkeye sounded deceptively calm.

The sound of her voice was an immediate relief. His stomach warily untangled itself, and he let out an audible sigh. He heard her readjust the receiver of the phone, as though she were holding something.

"I'm sorry to phone from a public line," the way she spoke was apologetic. As though she knew without seeing how tense, how unnerved he was.

"It's fine," he replied stiffly. "Is everything all right?" He wanted frivolities out of the way.

She could hear the panic in his voice. "I'm fine, sir…"

"What's the occasion, then, calling on your day off?" Mustang regretted how aggravated the comment sounded but he couldn't quite shake the nerves from his system.

She smiled, crossing her free arm and glancing behind her to the street. "I was wondering if you would be so kind to join me for lunch, sir. You can't possibly want to celebrate your whole birthday stuck indoors."

* * *

So...this wasn't supposed to end up quite as fluffy as it did. In fact, the original idea was to have a nightmare scene of Roy finding Riza dead the same way Hughes was...this happened instead.

Oh well, fluff is good on occassion. Yaays!


	39. If I Die

97. "If I die"

By the morning, it was over.

* * *

At 2356 hours, they were walking home quietly in the rain. Her hand was resting gingerly on her stomach, fingers laced loosely with his as they trod on beneath the umbrella that he was carrying. At 2359 hours, they rounded the corner to their small home, both glad to be able to get out of the rain. At 0002 hours, just as she stepped inside after him and hung her coat, he stiffened, hearing an unfamiliar sound in the sitting room. Not the scuffling sound of paws on the wooden floor, not the pattering of rain on the roof, not the slow shuffling feet of himself and his wife. No, it was different, unfamiliar and out of place. Whatever he heard, it did not belong, and it took milliseconds for him to step in front of her protectively, one hand on her stomach, pressed against the ever-growing bulge there.

And there was the distinctive sound of a gun's safety clicking, and she was the one to hear it. Even off active duty due to her 'delicate condition', the blonde didn't leave their bedroom without at least one firearm. She wholeheartedly contended that such behavior was force of habit, and he found himself comforted by the clicking of her weapon.

"You military bastards," the assailant growled. "You twisted, military _bastards_!"

Hesitantly, the husband gingerly pushed his very pregnant wife another step behind him, switching on the lamp. There stood a man that neither really recognized, his pistol glinting in the soft light, his dark mahogany-red eyes filled with hate. The dark skin and uncanny red eyes gave him away immediately; an Ishballan.

"I'll kill you, the both of you…that bastard of a child you're carrying too, no mercy. Do you hear me? No _mercy_!"

She was opening her mouth to speak when he opened fire. Petrified for his wife and unborn child, the father-to-be shoved her out of harms way. It was 0023 when she ended up on the ground, clutching the wound at her side.

* * *

At 0100 hours, they were in the emergency room of the nearest hospital.

The doctor told them at 0256 hours that the wounded mother-to-be would need surgery to treat her wounds—surgery that could not be done until the baby was born. Said doctor pumped the bedridden wife with drugs and vowed to return shortly, telling her to hang in there as long as she could, because they would take good care of her.

Roy Mustang sank into the chair at her bedside when, with every contraction, blood would ooze from the wound at her side. Riza caught his grimace, her face sallow and breath dangerously shallow as she pressed her hand harder against her side.

"Roy…"

The raven-haired man was sitting anxiously beside her, his head pressed against his hands. His dark eyes studied her carefully, panicked.

"If…" she paused, "If I die—"

"You won't die, Riza."

Her voice was wavering slightly, and he could hear the strain in her voice as she attempted to speak. "But if," she rasped, amber eyes pleading for his reassurance. "If…you'll take good care of the baby, right Roy?"

"Of course I will," he replied, hesitantly.

"Promise me," now he could hear how close she was to tears, see how afraid she was as the wetness pooled in her eyes and she didn't have the strength to wipe it away. "Please."

He stood, taking her free hand in his, "I promise."

* * *

And by dawn's first light, it was over.

* * *

Author's Notes: Don't own.

I can't tell you what happened here. I know Riza gets shot, she's pregnant, and whatever situation they are in is over at the end. I'm not sure what happens to her--if she lives or dies...I wanted to leave it up to you.


	40. Betrayal

13. Betrayal

Author's Notes: Manga spoilers! Chapter 58ish on. It's past, not plot. By the way, this turned out to be incredibly long, and it's mostly written from Edward's point of view. The Royai is subtle, and it's that way for a reason.

* * *

Edward Elric had not expected things to end up quite like this. When First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye had asked him, hesitantly however it might have been, to come along as backup as she explored the long since abandoned laboratory on the far reaches of town, he didn't expect to be of much use. This was, he knew, the infallible Riza Hawkeye, as bullet-proof and indestructible as his younger and steel-encased brother Alphonse. Even still, as they left the office that evening, Colonel Mustang issued one order: "Keep her safe."

He thought it was silly. Riza Hawkeye did not need to be kept safe. Riza Hawkeye would, if anything, be keeping _him_ safe.

Edward realized, with a pit forming somewhere in the depths of his stomach, that he had never been more wrong in his entire life.

They had split up, just for a second. Just long enough, he had convinced himself, to search the large abandoned room on the main floor. It was quiet enough, innocuous enough—there was nothing to alert him to danger. That was why it all seemed to happen so fast. The ticking started and finished before he could even take in the sound, and the explosion was enough to send the blonde lieutenant clear across the room and directly into a supporting beam.

"Holy _shit_," was all he could breathe as he sprinted to her side, crouching beside her. The explosion hadn't done as much damage as he had initially thought; it was the crash directly into the pole that was causing great concern. As he helped her sit forward, he saw a growing stain of blood seeping into her uniform jacket. Without asking permission, Edward reached around her, undoing buttons and ripping at fabric to expose the wound.

He exposed other things with that wound.

His eyes hadn't had the time to examine anything as life-threatening as gaping wounds, not when they fell on the intricate, red-lined alchemical array etched deep into her skin. Edward removed his hands, eyes flitting in panic. The lines, the intricacies, he didn't know: but he recognized enough. Theories were already forming, and anger bubbled up somewhere deep beneath them. Anger, that this had to be Roy Mustang's. Anger at what he thought the lines might mean, what they could signify—most importantly, what they could do. To _her_.

"E…Edward?"

Her breath was hitching, uneven as she tried to speak, turning her head slightly. "Don't, Lieutenant. I don't want to hear what excuse you _have_ for that bastard—"

"Later," she mumbled, the word coming more like a moan, "I can explain…but now…"

Edward snapped to the present, realizing once again that he was gingerly supporting a dying woman's frame, that he was supposed to be helping her to her feet or even carrying her. Carrying her away from the danger, through footsteps they had already taken to avoid any other detonations, to get her somewhere safe. Preferably somewhere safe that also had a physician.

The walk was precarious. Though he hated to admit it, he wasn't quite tall enough to support her, even as hunched over as she was. The best he could do, then, was to help guide her to safety, bearing as much of her weight as he could, until they stumbled into a streetlight on a moderately busy street. He didn't know what or whom he should thank when a black car sped to a stop beside them as they shuffled along unsteadily.

Roy Mustang opened the car door, and Edward could feel his face burn with shame at the hurt and anger he knew the older man felt.

* * *

He hadn't meant to cause such a scene in the hospital waiting room. It wasn't intentional. Edward hadn't planned on having to sit next to the dark-haired military officer for three hours while Hawkeye was in surgery, having the wound in her back stitched up properly. The anger bubbled, and he wished that she had gotten the chance to explain. He wasn't certain what explanation would make the tattoo _okay_, but at least he would have one.

"Why did you do that to her, Mustang?"

Looking up from the newspaper that he clearly was not reading, Roy quirked a brow, puzzled. "Do what?"

"Don't play stupid, you bastard. _That_. There were things on her back other than the injury to see."

Realization flickered across the older man's features, and Roy sat forward in his seat. "You saw that."

"Go to hell, Mustang! You know I saw it!" Anger was starting to boil over, Edward realized. _Why_ hadn't she had time to explain? The rationality in his mind explained over and over that she couldn't have explained but he would've killed to hear her side of the story. "How could you do that to her?"

"That's something she has to explain to you, Ed."

The younger boy got to his feet in fury, his automail arm reaching up to swing at the colonel in fury. The swing narrowly missed Roy's head, and stopped centimeters from the wall. He froze, golden eyes darkening as his arm finally lowered, fingers tightening dangerously into a fist. His eyes spoke volumes, the disgusted glare enough to have Roy sinking just slightly into his seat.

"There's one thing I can tell you," he finally muttered. "That's not my array."

* * *

Roy had gone home for the night. Edward had waited, irritably, in the waiting room, now unwilling to be within a ten-meter-radius of the dark-haired man. Visiting hours were over, and the nurse had already told him, politely three times and more irritably five, that it was time to go _home_. Edward explained that he just needed two more minutes, then four more minutes, and then five more. Eventually, the nurse told him she would return in a quarter hour—and finished or not, she would be escorting Edward to the front door herself.

Roy hadn't had the benefit of being able to talk to Riza; when he was finally allowed access to the room, she was awake, but so anesthetized that conversation was nearly impossible. But five hours post surgery she was starting to come back to her senses, and she was looking at Edward with bleary, tired eyes. She could tell, by the way he stared at her that he was still waiting for the explanation promised almost fifteen hours earlier.

"It was my father," she croaked. Her voice came out raspy and dry, as though she hadn't had a drink of water in days.

Indestructible Riza Hawkeye was looking outside the hospital window at the dark, rainy streets below, her face almost impossible to read, the sorrow in her features almost imperceptible. But Edward saw it—the distant panic flitting through her eyes, as though reliving a memory she hated to recall. He almost wished he hadn't had such a reaction earlier, hadn't prompted such vivid memories in the eyes of a woman that he had never seen as fragile.

"I showed the array to Roy after my father died," she continued, voice softening. "He responded similar to the way you did…how long has it been now, fifteen years? I still can't blame him for how angry he was."

Enraptured, Edward hung on to her every word.

"That's why you thought it was his. I showed him, because I foolishly believed that alchemy really could be for the people. That joining the military and using alchemy for good was not only possible, but honorable—the right thing to do." She laughed, a bitter, mirthless laugh, her gaze darkening. "After Ishbal, I asked him to burn it. I couldn't undo the damage that had already been done, but it seemed fitting that the array was marred by the information I had given him. It seemed fitting that I faced flames like the Ishbalans had—and never would have, if I had kept the secrets to myself."

Her hands were folded loosely in her lap, frown deeply etched into her features. Sighing, she whispered: "I betrayed my Father that night, giving away his research to a young soldier of whom he didn't approve." Her gaze darkened visibly, still focused directly out of the window. "I think most importantly, I betrayed Roy."

Finally, his voice returned. Just enough to get one word into this twisted tale that shouldn't breech into the life of a woman as dignified and kind and loyal as Riza: "Why?"

"I promised…I would never tell anyone who was responsible for the burns. Of all the deaths and injuries he caused or was involved in during Ishbal…he never could bear the responsibility for mine."


	41. Ultimate Weapon

Author's Note: I think I hate this. But it's been written for ages, and I kind of needed to prove that I am still alive. Look--insert me waving my arms around--I am still here!

89. Ultimate Weapon

The panicked, sickened look on her features, barely visible over the rapid approaching of a dark-skinned hand, made him sick to his stomach. He could hear gunshots, presumably from her weapon, and then the clattering of an empty cartridge to the ground. They had been running, cornered now, Mustang with his back pressed hard against the wall of an abandoned alley, drenched from the current downpour. Scar stood before him, looming, his hand mere millimeters from his face.

She cried from the background, an unusual accessory to this scene of murder-to-be, offering herself in Mustang's place. To his utmost surprise, the tall Ishbalan man turned slowly, the man's red eyes making it clear that he ought to remain perfectly still lest they both die on this particular damp night.

"You offer yourself in this murderer's place?"

Scar's voice was level as he approached the blonde First Lieutenant. He saw a brief flicker of panic in Hawkeye's eyes, and then she nodded. Her hands were trembling.

"Drop the gun."

_No_, Mustang could hear himself screaming. It was bad enough, bad enough that she'd witness him die by the hands of the State Alchemist serial killer. Bad enough that she would blame herself for his death, for he knew her so well—but even worse that she'd offer herself in his stead.

The gun clattered unceremoniously to the concrete.

Her deep amber eyes watched the darker skinned man survey her, a future prospect, the next in his line of kills. She wondered if she would stand out to him, as one of the few non-alchemists whom he killed. Her stomach turned as he moved closer to her.

"I do not intend to kill you," his low voice whispered, just loud enough for the two present to hear. The man's deep red eyes met hers, and she understood. The hunger. Perhaps he saw in her Ishbalan blood, a heritage she could do little to deny. Perhaps he saw a distinct reflection of himself, on the opposite side of the law but still as dedicated to a cause that would most likely end in an untimely death.

"Hawkeye, don't—"

Mustang's words were lost in the chaos of the Ishbalan shoving her to the ground, crawling above her. It was surprisingly gentle, for a man so incredibly large compared to her lithe frame, the way he carefully undid the buttons of her jacket and removed her hairclip.

He wondered which might be worse: knowing that the woman who he could never touch, could never appreciate for her beauty, could never _love_, was being taken by a man who only knew her as a faithful military dog—or knowing that he had been used as a weapon against her, that the large Ishbalan serial killer had branded her as being willing to do anything to save Mustang's life, and had done so correctly.

Roy Mustang had never been certain of what would ultimately undo his faithful subordinate. It was less than five minutes later when Scar straightened, leaving a disheveled blonde crumbled on the ground, and departed the alley. A man of honor—Mustang felt his stomach turn at the thought—Scar kept his part of the deal. In return for giving herself to him, Scar would not kill Mustang. Today, at least.

It sickened him, that night, long after he had gotten things cleaned up and escorted Riza home. Kneeling over the toilet in his own apartment, coughing bile into the watery filth, he realized that he had been used as the ultimate weapon against her.


	42. Why?

75. Why?

When he was younger, Roy Mustang wondered why his teacher had never taught his daughter alchemy. Even when they first met and little Riza Hawkeye said nothing more than a meek 'hello' to him, he was innately aware of her intelligence. When she wasn't doing housework, she was immersed in some sort of book or schoolwork. It reminded him slightly of her father and was, in fact, perhaps the only similarity he could find between them. He had peered over her shoulder to find her working on some mathematical problems at some point, and another time he had seen her studying chemistry. As far as he knew, she received high marks in school. So why? Why, he had wondered at the age of fourteen, did her father both not teach his child alchemy and go so far as take in a student?

"Miss Hawkeye?"

She was standing on a stepstool in front of the stovetop when he finally found a chance to talk to her. Mr. Hawkeye was out of town doing who-knew-what, and had left Roy in charge in his absence. He knew he had to ask now, as the two were not encouraged to have casual conversation.

"Yes, Mister Mustang?"

She was short for her age, and she was clearly having a difficult time trying to reach something from the upper cabinet. She had moved her stepstool and was almost on top of the table beneath the cabinet by the time she'd answered him. He put his hand atop her shoulder to stop her, instead helping her back off the table and getting on the stool himself. He was taller, and getting the bowls from the cabinet was easier. She scowled.

"I've seen you studying before, chemistry and mathematics and reading and the like." He paused, wondering what the best way to approach the subject was. "And as far as I've seen, you're good at it. Why hasn't Mr. Hawkeye taught you any alchemy? Do you not like it?"

If he thought the scowl on her face when he retrieved the dishes for her was bad, he recoiled at the cringe on her face. Her hands unconsciously crossed over her chest, gripping each elbow, a protective gesture, and she was looking squarely at a loose floorboard under the kitchen table. "Ah…" Riza bit her lip. "Well, he…he did try."

The way she was looking at him now, little tears pooled in the corner of her eyes, he thought the subject was closed. Her lip was trembling, and her shoulders were shaking just slightly.

"I'm sorry!" Roy said quickly, panicking. He had been told to watch after his teacher's daughter, not make her cry. "I didn't mean to upset you or anything, I was just curious…"

She shook her head slowly, turning away as she used her sleeve to wipe her eyes. "S…supper is ready," she whispered. He could hear the tears in her voice. "I'm not hungry." She got off her stool, and bolted up the stairs before he could even get another word in edgewise. Standing, flabbergasted, in the kitchen, he heard her bedroom door slam shut.

She didn't come out for the rest of the night.

He had left the subject untouched for years. After leaving the Hawkeye household and joining the military, after returning to see his teacher die before his eyes, after Ishbal—the topic had never come up again. He had once briefly considered asking her again, now as a friend and confidant as she actually could have a conversation with him, when Edward had asked her the same thing. Hawkeye's expression had darkened, though she'd remained calmer than she had when the question was broached when she was younger, and explained that no, she knew no alchemy and didn't understand even the most basic principles.

He had left the subject closed out of respect. In fact, it was Hawkeye who brought it up.

"Sir."

Mustang always wished she would use his first name. When she was little, it was Mister Mustang. Now that they were older, it was _Colonel_ or _sir_. He did have a first name, and occasionally he'd wonder if she was making a conscious effort to not use it. Even more so, he could tell by her tone of voice that she was not about to talk about work, and very desperately wished she would not call him _sir_ while talking about personal matters.

"Mm, Hawkeye?" Of course, he probably couldn't complain. He couldn't remember the last time he'd used her first name.

"I don't remember when, but you once asked me if my father taught me any alchemy."

He looked up from the newspaper he was reading, now quite interested. They were on a train ride from a meeting that had taken place in East City. He had known that being in Eastern brought back memories for his second-in-command: she had attended the military academy there and also grown up in a rural area outside of East City. She wasn't looking at him, but outside the window. Train rides often made her quiet, though occasionally they managed to have a private conversation that there was never time to have anywhere else. "I did ask," he replied. "I saw you doing your studies, and knew you were good with math and chemistry. Since your father hated having a student in the house, I always wondered why he took one on when you clearly had the basic knowledge to learn alchemy yourself."

Hawkeye frowned, an expression he saw from her reflection. "He did teach me, but not much. I understood the basic principles enough that he'd let me do small transmutations on my own."

Mustang was surprised. Hawkeye had gone so far as to tell Edward that she knew nothing about alchemy, and had said so rather firmly, even when the boy had questioned why Mustang hadn't taught her something to use in self defense, just in case. "I didn't know that."

"That's because I stopped," she said softly.

It was quiet for a few minutes after that. The way she'd mentioned that she'd stopped, Mustang thought she might continue and so he waited quietly for further explanation. It was just when he thought that none would come that she spoke again. "I hadn't quite mastered equivalent exchange when I tried to help my mother fix our stove. It tended to break often, and I'd seen my father fix it countless times. It was simple alchemy, and I'd seen the array. I even copied it once, so I'd remember it later." Hawkeye frowned, arms crossed not unlike she'd done when she was smaller, when Mustang had inquired the first time as to why she wasn't being taught alchemy as well. "Father was always pleased when I could do a transmutation correctly, and I was so excited to help, to see his reaction."

Colonel Mustang had a terrible feeling as to where this story was going, and braced himself.

"I still don't know what exactly went wrong. My mother had been telling me to stop, but I didn't know how. She pushed me out of the way." Hawkeye was looking at the floor. "The doctor assured my father that the alchemy accident wasn't what killed her," she whispered, frowning. "I don't know what injuries the accident caused, but I think the doctor told my father the accident was unrelated for my sake. She was bedridden for a month and a half before she died."

Mustang sat silently, unsure if his mouth was hanging open slightly in shock of what he had just been told. He had always wondered why Mr. Hawkeye had never spoken of his wife, of his family when they were just starting out. He'd been curious as to why his very intelligent subordinate had never learned any alchemy from her father, why she'd hated even discussing the basics of the science with him.

Now that he knew, though, he secretly wished he'd never asked.

* * *

A/N: Okay guys, huge and giant disclaimer here. I DON'T think that this is necessarily what happened, I don't think this is canon. Seriously for real. I don't think that there is anything Riza Hawkeye did to make Mama Hawkeye not be in the manga/anime (unless you want to argue that Mama Hawkeye died/became weakened after childbirth, which would be reasonable). I was wondering absently this afternoon why exactly Hawkeye-sensei takes in a student when he seems to like to keep his research in the family. it made me wonder if he ever taught Riza any alchemy. Anime Expo was this weekend and I was staff, so I think at this point my sleep deprived brain morphed those thoughts into this fic. What happened here/what was described here is totally all speculation, and yes, it is slightly far fetched speculation so please don't tell me that this could never happen in a review, because I do know that it is definitely a stretch. Please read and review! Thanks guys!


	43. From Yesterday

94. From Yesterday

"I'm lucky," Riza Hawkeye's voice slurred weakly.

Roy Mustang twitched, confused—no, downright perplexed. Here they were, banished to a small concrete bunker just outside Central City, kilometers away from badly needed medical care. He had Hawkeye's head in his lap, cradling it from the freezing ground beneath them, and though he was looking directly at her he was fighting to keep his gaze off of the sizeable gash on her forehead which had, by then, grown to be clearly infected. Her body, despite having lost what he was certain was a significant amount of blood, was warm and clammy to the touch. He knew she was running a fever. He knew that the gash on her head was not being properly treated. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew she was most likely going to die in this bunker, maybe even lying like this.

Apparently, she also knew her projected fate.

"Why would you say you're lucky, Hawkeye?" It was almost physically painful to keep his voice from growing in anger. He would've thought she was _far_ from lucky.

She was looking up at him, amber eyes slightly clouded, when the smallest smile crossed her face. "We're soldiers," she replied calmly.

He was beginning to wonder if the fever was getting to her, and that he was speaking to a delirious woman. "I don't understand." He gently smoothed the hair out of her face, frowning. Yes, he thought. She was certainly delirious. "We are soldiers, but that isn't…new…" Then again, maybe _he_ was delirious, for arguing with a dying woman.

"No, no," she mumbled, the small smile flickering for a moment before returning. "We're soldiers, and we never get to choose…" She was looking at him again, the same glazed-eye look that was starting to give him an unpleasant case of the shudders. "Never choose where we are…who we're with…"

He waited, figuring she would continue. When she closed her eyes, he gently shook her. The thought of her face, pallid and still, scared him. If she'd just open her eyes and keep talking, even if she was just babbling nonsense, then he knew she'd still be with him for another few minutes. If they could keep going like that, then maybe, just maybe, she could get out of this alive.

"When we die." She finished unceremoniously, apparently unaware of the nearly five-minute gap between her statements.

Maybe she wasn't so delirious: she seemed to recognize the open-mouthed stare she was getting, and she struggled to find the right words. "Soldiers die all the time," she elaborated weakly, "in training…in the field…in war and combat…" Hawkeye paused, her gaze suddenly clear, but only momentarily, "but almost always alone."

He was flabbergasted by the clarity with which she was speaking. "But…"

She was still looking at him, smiling contentedly, "but I won't."

Mustang still felt like he didn't understand. What was lucky about dying? What luck was there to be found, no matter the situation? No matter how she died, it didn't change that at the end of the story, she was dead. What difference did it make?

"I'm with someone," she whispered. "Someone…that I care about. Somewhere safe…that's more than most of us will have." Hawkeye gently touched the hand that was cradling her shoulders, trying to smile. "So I'm lucky."

* * *

Almost five years later, Roy Mustang had never told her about that quiet night in the old concrete bunker as she lay dying in his arms. She had been lucky, just as she'd proclaimed in her delirious stupor. Help had arrived just hours after that one-sided conversation. He'd asked her, just once, if she remembered any part of that night in the bunker. Her earnest response had convinced him of just how precarious a situation she'd been in—she didn't even recall the bunker they'd holed up in for almost two full days.

But he'd never forget what she'd said that night. _I'm with someone I care about,_ she'd whispered, _so I'm lucky_. She'd found peace in something so small in the wake of what had seemed like certain death. Though he'd never work up the nerve to tell her, he found peace in her calming words that night, as well. If nothing else, he knew he would always remember what she'd said between the words: _I'm lucky, because I'm not alone_.

* * *


End file.
